Free The Real Thing by J.J. Murray

once in here, bits of tape covering newsprint in the corners. I’ll bet my last few articles were in here once, and now they’re hanging in Dante’s room.
    Hmm. I have to find that room. I may have to do a little recon . . .
    The last scrapbook records his comeback. Three fights, pictures of his bloody face brooding in one corner while the referee counts down his opponent in the other. I count fifteen different articles after the third fight, one of which details his rematch with Tank Washington.
    The rest of the book is blank, but stuck in between two pages is a picture of Evelyn and Dante. My heart flutters a little because it looks so recent. This might be a shot of one of their dates. I wish I could say Evil Lynn was anorexic with a white booty, no hips, bug eyes, bony arms, and a bad perm, but she’s actually a nice-looking woman. She doesn’t look anything like a diva or a shrew. Dante’s eyes are only for her in the picture, and his smile is . . .
    Damn.
    He still loves her.
    I’ve never had a man look at me like that.
    Her eyes, though, are straight ahead, as if she’s in charge of the universe. Maybe she is. She still seems to be in charge of Dante’s universe. Coiffed and dressed to perfection, Evelyn is beautiful in a Dorothy Dandridge’s skinny half-sister kind of way. Paparazzi wouldn’t necessarily swarm this woman if she was an actress, and though I don’t know her at all, I’m sure she’d have plenty of interesting things to say. I can see why she wouldn’t like it up here. Other than present company, there’s no one to see her, to walk behind her to hold her train, to bask in her queenly aura.
    And Red says I remind him of her? Red needs glasses. I don’t have a face like hers. When I turn sideways, people still see me.
    I riffle through the scrapbooks again, and I get an idea. Dante’s life would make a nice book, maybe an “as told to” autobiography. These pictures—well, maybe not the last one that’s stressing me out so much—would be interspersed throughout, and these scrapbooks already form the outline of the book. It would be an easy write. He has to beat Tank Washington, however, for it to sell. If he can become champion again, it could be a best seller. It’s a nice idea, but . . .
    I put the books away, not she-wolfing it anymore as I replace them, and sit next to Lelani. “What are they playing to?”
    â€œThey play till the next fight and keep a running tally,” she says. “They’ve been playing for close to two months now. Someone usually wins by hundreds, even thousands, of points.”
    â€œWhat does the winner get?” I ask.
    â€œBragging rights.”
    That’s all? I fake a pout. “Don’t they ever invite you to play, Lelani?”
    â€œMe? I am strictly a poker player.”
    Figures.
    â€œWhenever Evelyn visits unannounced—meaning that Red and I can’t escape in time—they play partners,” Lelani says. “Red and Dante—always—and DJ and his mama.”
    That also figures. “Who wins?”
    â€œDJ and his mama.” Lelani shakes her head. “I think sometimes Dante and Red lose on purpose, and now they’re trying to make up for all those losses by playing cutthroat.”
    I make a power decision and stand. “It’s time for me to play.”
    She blinks. “You’re not going to try to take Evelyn’s place, are you?”
    â€œOh no,” I say. “I could never do anything like that.” I smile. “I don’t intend to play cards, Lelani. I just wanna play, you understand?”
    â€œI dig,” she says. “Go play.”
    I go directly to DJ and look over his shoulder. According to the scorecard, DJ is over nine hundred points behind Dante, who is around two hundred points behind Red.
    â€œI bid . . . nine,” DJ says.
    No wonder this child is losing. He has a